


Don't You Know That I Love You?

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e06 Skin, Episode: s04e13 After School Special, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-22
Updated: 2009-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes tense in his bonds as the shapeshifter gives him a long, thorough once-over from head to foot and back again that leaves Sam in no doubt of its intentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Know That I Love You?

**Author's Note:**

> Belated ( _very_ belated) birthday fic for drvsilla: Sam and Dean's first kiss, post-Stanford. 
> 
> The "rape/non-con" warning on this fic is only to demonstrate that there are non-consensual events happening (ie. forced kissing). There's no actual rape, but I figured it's better to warn than trigger someone accidentally.

"Where is my brother?" Sam demands, working at the ropes around his wrists.

" _I am_ your brother," it says, and Sam is frozen for a bare instant, wondering despite himself if that's true. If this is the real Dean, buried under layers of duty and obedience and repression.

The shapeshifter puts its hands on Sam's thighs and leans in, Dean's eyes boring into his own, darker and wilder than Sam's ever seen them. His blood runs faster in his veins, making him strain against the ropes for more than just freedom's sake. His heart is suddenly pounding wild and heavy, battering against his ribs. He can't quite catch his breath.

"See, deep down, I’m just jealous," the shifter confides in a low, smoky voice. "You got friends. You could have a life. Me? I know I’m a freak. And sooner or later, everybody’s gonna leave me."

The shifter smirks bitterly as it draws away, as if it knows what it's doing to him. Maybe it does. God only knows what it's dredging up out of Dean's mind. Sam takes deep breaths and wills himself to stay calm, to remember that this isn't Dean, no matter what it looks or sounds like. Dean doesn't know about _Sam's_ freakishness, so neither can this thing. Dean has never had even the slightest inkling. That's possibly the one thing Sam's managed to do right in his life.

They go round and about for another minute or two, the shapeshifter taunting and Sam refusing to react, even when it leers at the thought of getting its hands on Becky. Sam works at his ropes the whole time, keeping his eyes on the shifter, making sure it doesn't notice. He goes still when it approaches again, seeming more at home in Dean's body by the minute. Its movements are fluid, graceful, very nearly as smooth as Dean's, with a predatory edge that Dean lacks when he's not hunting. Sam's mouth goes dry despite himself.

"Now you be a good boy and wait for me right here," it says in a mock-stern tone, grabbing a sheet with the clear intention of throwing it over him. "When I get back, we'll spend some _quality time_ together. Get to know each other better, now that you're all grown up. Bet you'll like that, huh, Sam?"

" _What?_ " Sam splutters. "What the ..."

He goes tense in his bonds as the shapeshifter gives him a long, thorough once-over from head to foot and back again that leaves Sam in no doubt of its intentions. It's smiling when their eyes meet again, dark and sultry and _hungry_. It's an expression Sam's never seen on his brother's face. Sam's face heats up in response, arousal and fury combined.

"You're sick," he spits, ignoring the growing warmth in his belly, that little curl of anticipation sliding along his nerves.

"Oh, come on, Sammy," it murmurs, coming to stand over him, legs bracketing his knees, bending down to nuzzle at the side of his face. "I'm not _blind_." Its teeth graze over his jawline, followed by a flick of tongue. "It's not just you, by the way," it breathes into his mouth, lips not quite touching. "I've been wanting your ass for years, little brother. Bet you didn't know that, huh? Bet things would've turned out a _lot_ different if you did."

Sam presses back against the post, closing his eyes and keeping his mouth shut. He doesn't want to hear this, doesn't want to know Dean's secrets this way. It's wrong, more wrong than the wanting itself, and he hates the small part of him that eats it up, waits and hopes for the shifter to speak again.

"Why so shy, Sam?"

There's the familiar-strange touch of Dean's hand on his cheek, sliding down to grip the rope around his neck and twist it, hard. Sam's eyes fly open as he gasps for breath, and the shifter's smirk looks awfully, horribly _hot_ on Dean's face.

"Fuck you," he snarls, ignoring the black sparks dancing at the edge of his vision, the undeniable hardness of his cock.

"No, I don't think so," it replies thoughtfully. "I think maybe I'll fuck you. And I think you're going to love it, aren't you?"

It doesn't wait for an answer, just twists the rope tighter until Sam can't breathe at all, and then it leans in and takes his mouth in a bruising, savage battle that can barely be called a kiss. Its other hand burrows into Sam's crotch, finding his cock and squeezing, making his hips jerk into the touch. Sam does his best to fight it, biting and trying to jerk his head away and desperately trying not to lean into the shifter's looming warmth, but his body is desperate and his strength is fading alarmingly fast. He's all but unconscious when it finally pulls away.

He can taste Dean in his mouth, coffee and fries and chewing gum, and blood from where he was biting. He's hard as a rock, and he feels sick. He wants more. It's not Dean, but his body doesn't care.

"That should give you something to think about until I get back," it says cheerfully with one last squeeze. It winks at him when it lets go. "Don't worry, I won't get too rough with little Becky. I'm saving that for you."

The sheet falls down neatly over Sam's head, and he passes out before it settles.

* * *

After that, there's Dean-- _really_ Dean this time, grumbling and cursing and transparently concerned for Sam's safety underneath. It's obvious just how much the shapeshifter was lying when he's faced with Dean's brotherly concern. Sam tells himself he's relieved and doesn't let himself linger on the bitten places in his mouth, the echo of Dean's taste. He can't quite stop himself from watching, trying to see even a hint of something more, but he's been doing that since he was fourteen years old and all it's ever gotten him is a whole lot of disappointment and a full ride to Stanford.

"And look how that turned out," Sam mutters to himself, matching Dean's easy jogging stride as they make their way back to the car.

"What?" Dean shoots him a look.

"Nothing," Sam says. "Is that where we left the car?" He points ahead to the next corner.

"I think so." Dean squints and speeds up a little. "Yeah."

Then, of course, circumstances conspire to separate them again, because nothing can ever go right for them. When he finds himself trussed up on the floor in Becky's house with the shapeshifter standing over him for the second time, Sam has to wonder just how much God hates him. It's not like he hasn't tried to ignore this particular weakness when it comes to Dean. It's a good part of the reason he went to Stanford in the first place. But this--this is unfair. This thing that looks like his brother is taunting him, riling him to violence in a really fucking familiar way, only this time Sam feels no urge to hold back.

The fight is short, savage, and Sam's doing okay until the damn thing gets its hands around his throat. Either it's got a sixth sense or it was paying attention earlier, because the minute Sam feels the constriction, he goes limp. It's too much; Dean's body pressing him into the floor, the scent of their blood and sweat in the air, and nobody to hold the shifter back. Nothing at all to stop it from choking the life right out of him, until he falls headfirst into dreamy lassitude and sinks too deep to come back.

Sam pushes at the hands around his neck, the shifter's (Dean's) arms, but his heart isn't in it. He can't bring himself to fight. He's wanted this for too long. He can feel the shifter pushing him down, its ass teasing his fucking stupid hard-as-nails cock, its legs two points of warmth against his cold hips. The hands around his throat are flexing, tightening, and Sam simply goes with it, tilts his head back and keeps his eyes closed and pretends it's Dean. He's always wanted it to be Dean.

"Hey!"

Dean's voice, sharp and furious. Sam almost misses it; the darkness is right there, close enough to touch, softer than velvet and just as enticing. But then there's the crack of gunfire and the scent of cordite, and the weight that was holding him down is gone. Dean's already checking Sam over as he approaches the shifter's body to make sure it's dead.

Sam rolls up onto one elbow and gasps for air, seeing Dean rip his amulet from the shifter's neck with restrained viciousness. His throat aches in response; he'll have bruises in the morning, he thinks, in the shape of Dean's hands. The thought makes him shudder, and his cock jerks insistently, demanding attention. Sam sits up and bends his knees to hide it.

"You okay?" Dean's at his side in the next instant, getting a shoulder under Sam's to help him upright. Sam staggers to his feet and wavers for a second, but the world steadies under him and his breath starts to come a little easier. Or as easy as it ever does when he's this close to his brother.

"I'm good," he rasps, turning away, trying to hide a wince. Dean catches it and gives him a narrow stare, but Sam shakes his head. "I'm _fine_ , Dean," he says. "Let's get out of here before the cops turn up. Someone's bound to have heard that shot."

Dean reties the broken cord of the amulet and slips it over his head, then jerks his head toward the door. "Ladies first," he says with a smirk, but Sam can feel the heat of him just behind, probably making sure Sam doesn't keel over. It makes him feel warm all over, and he swallows hard. The sting of his bruised throat only intensifies the feeling. His cock throbs, the pain of it a distraction as they leave Becky's house on the double. Sam sits with his knees up against the dashboard like he hasn't since he was thirteen, but Dean doesn't so much as smirk. Sam wishes he could be grateful.

They pack up and leave the second they get back to the motel, just to be safe. Dean won't let Sam drive; he steals a pillow from the room and stuffs it behind Sam's head in the passenger seat with a curt order to stay put and shut up, and Sam realises Dean is more shaken than he looks. He guesses seeing yourself choking your little brother to death would be enough to spook anyone, even Dean. _Particularly_ Dean. Sam keeps his mouth shut and nestles into the pillow, and tries to enjoy the fussing. The small, intense waves of pain and heat that roll over him whenever he swallows or speaks--he tries to ignore those, for sanity's sake.

It's a very long time before he falls asleep.

When the sun comes up Dean is still driving, whistling aimlessly into the silence normally filled by his music. Sam eases gradually into wakefulness, a dull headache pounding at his temples and neck, and peers groggily out the windshield.

"Where are we?" he asks. His voice is a raw, harsh croak. He feels like he's swallowed rough grade sandpaper.

"Somewhere in northern Missouri," Dean says. He looks over. "You look like hell. Sound like it, too."

"Thanks." Sam coughs, flinches at what it does to his throat, and fishes under his seat for a bottle of water. It slides down cool and blessedly wet, soothing some of the rawness away. "We stopping anytime soon?"

"Figured we'd get another state line behind us first," Dean says, eyes flicking back to check Sam over again. "You feeling okay?"

Sam's drinking more water; he holds up one hand while he swallows, a bit easier now.

"Breakfast," he suggests. "My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

Bad choice of words, he realises a moment later; Dean's eyes flick to his neck and linger this time, dark and shuttered, before he looks back at the road. Sam ignores the ache of longing in his gut and starts keeping an eye out for exit signs.

Dean hovers unobtrusively for the rest of the day; through breakfast when they cross over into Iowa, through two pit stops for food and gas (Sam has to argue for the right to go to the bathroom alone), then when he decides they've put enough miles between them and the dead shapeshifter and pulls into a motel. Sam watches Dean watching him, acutely aware of the space between them in a way he normally suppresses. It's playing havoc with his peace of mind, but at the same time this is almost (almost) exactly the sort of attention he craves from Dean, and he's not a good enough man to deny himself. So he sprawls on his bed, swallows harder and speaks more than he needs to, and doesn't do anything to divert Dean's attention elsewhere.

They spend the day quietly, keeping a low profile. Dean hauls out the guns and Sam spends a torturous couple of hours watching his hands, deft and capable as he strips them down, oil gleaming on his fingertips. The ache he's ignoring spreads and winds through his whole body, coiling around his nerves, and it's all he can do to lie still and pretend to nap whenever Dean happens to look up. It hasn't been this bad in a long time. Sam curses the shapeshifter and twists restlessly on the bed, wanting to turn his back on Dean, unable to look away.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asks suddenly, and Sam realises he's been caught. Dean's hands are still, his eyes fixed on Sam's face. "You've been twitchy all day. You hurting?"

"No." Sam drags his eyes away, stares at the wall. "I'm fine."

"You don't look it," Dean mutters.

Sam lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, unwilling to argue. It's only when Dean's standing over him with that intent, narrowed gaze boring into him that Sam remembers that his brother's still freaked. He sits up in a hurry, drawing his legs out of the way just in time as Dean sits down on the bed.

"What the hell, Dean?" he demands, trying for normal, getting only a husky near-growl that's a shadow of his normal voice. "Who died and made you Florence Nightingale?"

"Please." Dean snorts. "You see me wearing a corset and a frilly cap?" He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, heavy and warm. "Quit squirming. I just wanna take a look at those bruises. You don't want to lose your manly baritone, do you?"

"Bass, thank you," Sam starts to retort, but then Dean's hands are on his throat and he can't speak at all.

It's nothing like the shapeshifter, of course; Dean's not trying to kill him, for one thing, and for another it just _feels_ different. Dean isn't a tactile person, so when he does touch, Sam pays attention. This, right now, Dean's hands tilting his face up and to the side to get a better look at his neck, is more contact than they've had at any point since the night Jessica died. Sam holds very still and concentrates on breathing calm and easy, on showing nothing of the want coursing through him every time Dean's fingers brush tender skin. He stares across the room, pretending Dean isn't sitting practically in his lap. He can smell Dean's hair gel, and it makes no sense that such a mundane thing should be driving him so absolutely crazy.

"Looks okay," Dean decides after a minute, pulling back. He pats Sam's face in the annoyingly patronising way Sam has always hated. "That's twice in three months, Sammy. Keep this up, I'm gonna start thinking you like it."

Any other day, Sam would laugh and roll his eyes and bat Dean's hand away. Any day that didn't come so soon after having his deepest-buried desires thrust in his face. This time, it's all too close to the surface, and he can't do anything but sit there and stare at his brother and _want_. Dean catches his eye and Sam can see the realisation dawning, see the knowledge bleed into his brother's mind. He swallows involuntarily, and his eyes close at the burn.

When he opens them again, Dean is still there. Sitting close, fists planted in the mattress on either side of his hips. His gaze is fixed on Sam's throat.

"Sam," he whispers, and now it's Dean that sounds hoarse. He clears his throat, glancing up meet Sam's eyes, and it's hard to tell which of them blushes more.

"I don't--" Sam starts, his voice breaking in the middle. "It wasn't--you were never supposed to know." He laughs a little brokenly, shrugging. " _I_ didn't want to know."

"Shut up," Dean says absently, eyes roving over Sam's face. "I need a minute, here." He brings one hand up, closes it lightly around Sam's neck; Sam draws in sharp breath and bites his lip, pure reflex. Dean adds a little more pressure, fingers flexing against his skin, and Sam's eyes start to close of their own accord, his breath coming short. He leans into Dean's hand, feeling the deep bruises start to throb.

"Jesus," Dean breathes, watching him. "Sammy."

Sam doesn't whimper at the darkness in Dean's voice, but it's a near thing. He drags his eyes open to stare, lips parted, gasping. Dean's face is very close. His grip tightens, a little flare of pain shooting down Sam's spine.

"Dean," he forces out, "Dean, please. Please. I'm sorry, I--"

Dean leans in until he's all Sam can see. "Thought I told you to shut up," he says, his lips moving against Sam's cheek, and then he angles his mouth and clenches his hand and Sam jerks into the kiss.

It's better than the last one. Rough and hard and on the edge of violence, but Dean is completely in control, his other hand framing Sam's face while his tongue takes a slow tour of Sam's mouth. Sam stops breathing altogether, opens up for it, draws Dean in as deep as he wants to go. His hands are fisted in the bedsheets; he brings them up and puts them on Dean's shoulders, gripping white-knuckled and desperate. Dean's fingers on his throat press him this way and that, directing him where and when to tilt his head, to open wider, to offer himself up for Dean's enjoyment.

He loses track of time, falls into a haze of firm lips and sleek, clever tongue and teeth that bite exactly hard enough to make him jump. His cock is like an iron rod in his jeans, and his heart is racing, and all they've done is _kiss_.

Then Dean presses his head right back, way back, and sucks a bruise of his own into the underside of Sam's jaw, and the moan Sam has been trying to contain bursts out of him, loud and rusty-sounding. Dean's teeth nip at him, not gently, and his hand grips Sam's hair to keep him in place.

"Greedy son of a bitch, aren't you?" Dean murmurs into his neck, pressing a chaste kiss to the new bruise. He doesn't wait for an answer, coming back to Sam's mouth for another round, and Sam thinks faintly of pots calling kettles black before Dean sucks Sam's tongue into his mouth, and he forgets how to think at all.

He feeds on Dean's mouth, drinking in the feel and taste of him until he's dizzy with it. His throat is burning from the hard grip Dean has on him, his skin hypersensitive from all the abuse it's sustained. He keeps leaning in, wanting to feel it deeper, as if he could brand Dean's touch right into his bones.

"How long?" Dean asks against his mouth, tongue painting the bow of Sam's upper lip. "How long, Sammy?"

He doesn't know if Dean means the choking, or the wanting, or all of it. It doesn't matter; the two are inseparable when it comes to Dean.

"Since I was fourteen," he grinds out.

Since Truman High, when Sam was fourteen and Dean was a cocky eighteen in their father's hand-me-down leather jacket, and Dean had threatened to tear Dirk MacGregor's lungs out for taunting Sam in the hall. He'd been pissed at the time, and he'd handled it himself, but afterward the image of Dean pacing furiously along the bleachers stayed with him. That, and the memory of Dean sidling out of a janitor's closet with Amanda, tossing him a wink, a smirk planted squarely on his kiss-reddened mouth.

"And here I thought you were a late bloomer," Dean says now, that same smirk on his face, a challenge sitting right in front of him.

Sam wraps his hand around Dean's neck and yanks him in.

"You have no idea."

END


End file.
